Tentacle Death Trip (13 page)

Samson’s bowels
churned. He took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car coast around the
potholes.

“What is that?”
Paulo said.

“
R’lyeh
,” Samson said. “It’s
R’lyeh
.”

III.

Five Years Ago

Samson now had a
car. He had a purpose. He was going to get his son back.

Despite there
being no real long distance communication, word traveled fast through post-war America.
Stories were told and rumors were spread from trade bus to caravan to wasteland
towns.

For two years
Samson asked around about a biker named Tomato and received bits and pieces of
information. Some bits conflicted with others but what he did find out was that
there was a guy named Tomato Joe who led a group of bikers and the last time
anyone saw him, he was headed to north Jersey.

As soon as Samson
heard this from three different people, he drove his car through New
Jersey, stopping only to gather more information on
Tomato Joe. At this point Samson had been preparing himself with a strict
fitness regimen consisting of push-ups, sit-ups, and weight-lifting with
whatever heavy objects he could find: small boulders, engine blocks, tires.
Though never much of a fighter before, he practiced punching into sand, glass,
and asphalt. He hit himself in the face as well. The pain didn’t matter. He
wanted to make himself immune to it.

Eventually Samson
met a man named Marsh who operated a small trading post in what used to be the
city of New Providence. Marsh was
dark and wrinkled, so much so that at first Samson thought the man was wearing
a mask.

“You hear of a
biker named Tomato Joe?” he had asked Marsh.

The man squinted,
the wrinkles on his face turning into a map of ancient despair. His throat
gargled. “Tomato Joe, you say?”

“That’s what I
said.”

“You
a friend of his?”

“Not
exactly.”

Marsh nodded.
“Good. He’s a piece of shit.”

“I know.”

“Last I heard he
went over to Jersey City. Don’t
know if he’s still there but that’s what I heard.”

“Did you see him?”

“Saw him a while
ago. Why?”

“Did he have
anyone with him?”

“Just those
goddamn bikers of his.”

“No, I mean….other
people.”

Marsh looked up at
the sky and then at Samson. “You trying to say he took someone?”

Samson nodded.
“Yeah.
Do you remember if he had anyone with him like…a
kid?”

Marsh said,
“Couldn’t really tell you either way. Maybe he did, I don’t know. It wouldn’t
be the first time. He always does that sort of thing, takes people,
sells
‘
em
. I know he’s been in
business with Silver for a while.”

“Silver.”

“Yep,” Marsh said.
“Now, you
gonna
buy something or what?”

Samson had
appeased the man and bought a few cans of provisions. Then he sped off to Jersey
City in search of Tomato Joe.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Wow! This race
is surprising even me and I’ve seen a lot of shit,
lemme
tell you!

Mama Hell is
now in…..well, I’d like to think she’s in heaven, right? I mean, she was a
good, God-fearing woman. But she sure as hell got the brunt of
Drac’s
“pure road hell brutality” and sure made a mess in
Lord Bing Bong’s place.

And speaking of
Lord Bing Bong, did everyone see him get gut-fucked by
Drac’s
tentacle? Shit, I haven’t seen a death like that since
Dixon
Myers got gutted by Chainsaw Cook. Now that was a mess! So
Drac
wins the special prize and we’ll all find out what that is when he reaches
Atlantic
City
.

But who’s going
to win this electrifying death race, eh? I don’t know. Your guess is as good as
mine!

*

I.

Drac
thought he was in first place until he saw the exhaust
from Samson’s car about a half mile ahead.

“Son of a bitch,”
he said, half-heartedly. He was, in fact, quite glad he was facing Samson in
the last leg of the race. There was something about the man that made
Drac
know he was a worthy competitor, someone deserving of
his respect.

He sped up,
navigating around the potholes and the freakish animals that ran across the
road, almost daring him to turn them into radioactive road kill. He put down
the top of his convertible and locked the gas pedal down. He stood on the
driver’s seat, crouching down just enough to be able to steer the car with one
hand. With the other he held his giant, white gun.

Then
Drac
saw
R’lyeh
.

He nearly fell out
of the car. The ancient city, rising up from behind the casino hotels, struck
fear into him.

But he had to keep
driving.

With a
high-pitched scream,
Drac
Dunwich
cocked his gun and steered around the potholes towards Samson’s car.

II.

One Year Ago

Jersey
City was a shitty place before the war so there wasn’t
much of a contrast when Samson drove into town. Dilapidated housing and burnt
out urban areas made up much of the landscape. In the center was the Northern
Compound but that was off limits to everyone unless they had specific
permission to enter from the gangster warlord himself Mr. Silver.

Samson wasn’t
interested in Silver, though. He was looking for Tomato Joe.

Most people living
in Jersey City were heavily into
drugs. That wasn’t strange. The war had turned the country upside down and
those who already had unstable lives found themselves pushed into any form of
escape.

He drove slowly
through the streets, looking for any sign of Tomato’s biker gang. The sound of a
motorcycle sounded in the distance and he stopped the car and rolled down the
window to listen.

Yeah, it was a
motorcycle engine. But then: a click and a voice.

“Get
outta
the
fuckin
car, asshole,”
it said, a high-pitched whisper.

Samson turned his
head to the left and saw a guy in a reverse
mohawk
standing there with a small revolver pointed
at him. He was really just a kid, couldn’t be no more than sixteen, seventeen
years old. Samson shook his head slightly. It was a shame.

“Just back up,
kid,” he said. “I’ve got no business with you.”

The punk nodded
quickly, causing the numerous metal rings on his face to jingle. His lips
quivered and drool leaked out of a hole in his chin.
“Oh
yeah?
Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The punk cocked
the revolver.

“Well, maybe I got
business with you, old man.”

Samson didn’t want
to do it but it seemed like the only option. “Just walk the fuck away.”

From behind a car,
another voice shouted, “What’s taking so long, Trash?”

The punk with the
revolver turned his head, just a little bit, and said, “Shut the hell up,
Ogre!”

Samson saw his
chance and while Trash had turned his attention to his friend, he grabbed his
own gun and shot the punk in the chest. He started the car and stepped on the
gas. In the rearview mirror he saw the guy named Ogre kneeling by his bleeding
comrade and shaking his fist at Samson.

The motorcycle
sound had multiplied. Samson rounded a corner, almost running down a junkie
waving a red and black flag.

Then he saw them.
“Bingo.”

The motorcycle
gang was coming right for him. Samson recognized a few of them. How could he
forget? They all wore the same patches as Tomato Joe’s gang. Bullwhips were
wrapped around their necks.

He put the gas
pedal to the floor and sped up towards the gang, swerving to the right, and
knocking into them. Two of the bikers flew off their vehicles and onto the
sidewalk while two others drove straight into a storefront.

Samson didn’t see
Tomato Joe but he sure was going to find out where the guy was. He turned his
car around and got out of it, holding his gun in one hand and a baseball bat in
the other. The nearest biker to him was lying on the ground with a broken leg.
One of his ribs was jutting out of his white t-shirt.

Samson walked up
to him and hit him across the face with the bat.
“
Bowsman
.”

The biker
screamed. “What the fuck, man!”

“You don’t
remember me?” Samson said. “I remember you…
Bowsman
.”

The other biker
was reaching for something. Samson shot him in the face. He looked back down at
Bowsman
and lifted the bat.

Bowsman
said, “What the fuck you doing, man?”

“Where’s my son?”

“Who?”

“My
son.”
Samson hit him in the chest, the wooden bat making contact with
the exposed rib.

The biker
screamed. “Shit, man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“What about Tomato
Joe? Where is he?”

“Fuck you, man!”

Another hit to the
rib.

“Where is he?”

“Okay, fuck, man.
He’s at
Goehrig’s
.”

“Where’s that?”

“Down
the road, man.
Place that says ‘bakery’ on it.”
Bowsman
grimaced and rolled over, his rib scraping against the sidewalk, sending chills
up Samson’s spine.

“Does he still
have a boy with him?”

“Man, you’re
crazy.”

Samson put his gun
in his waistband and held the baseball bat with two hands. He swung it at
Bowsman’s
shoulder, dislocating it. “Fine, I’m crazy.”

From behind him,
Samson could hear the other two bikers climbing out of the storefront rubble.
He grabbed his gun and swung it in their direction. “Just stay where you are,
assholes.”

They nodded. Their
heads were cut and they were bleeding profusely.

Samson got into
his car and put it in reverse, backing up a half a block. Then he sped up onto
the sidewalk and ran over
Bowsman
.

He drove up the
road and found the building that said
Goehrig’s
Bakery. The windows were boarded up and the front of it was spray-painted with
graffiti:
Free the
Noid
, Frankie Booth
waz
hair,
SNIPERZ says Sit Still,
Jack’s Back, Eat
Bonkerz
.

There was a
motorcycle parked in front. Samson parked next to it and got out of the car,
his gun in one hand and the baseball bat in the other.

He opened the
front door and walked into darkness.

A quiet and
exhausted voice said, “
Bowsman
, that you?”

Samson stood
still.
“Nope, not
Bowsman
.”

“Mayo?”

“Nope.”

“Ingmar?”

“Guess again.”

“Who
the fuck then?”

Samson walked
towards the voice, through a hallway, and into a large kitchen. There he was:
Tomato Joe. He was sitting at a table in front of a giant oven. The man was
skinny, shirtless, and a plunging a needle into his arm.

“You don’t look
like much,” Samson said.

“Fuck
are
you?”

“I guess you don’t
remember.”

“No. Should I?”

“
Bowsman
didn’t remember either,” Samson said, stepping
closer so Tomato Joe could get a better look. “So I ran him over with my car.”

“Listen, asshole,
get the fuck out of here.” He looked down at the syringe and emptied the
contents into his vein.

The baseball bat
slammed down on his forearm, cracking it. Blood and drugs splattered the table.
Tomato screamed.

“Where’s my son?”
Samson said, lifting the bat and slamming it into Tomato Joe’s chest, knocking
him backward to the floor.

Samson stood over him,
pointing the gun at Tomato’s face.

“I don’t know what
you’re talking about. What son?”

“My
son.
You took him. I was driving with my family on the road and you
pulled us over. You took him away. Where did you take him?”

Tomato Joe looked
sincerely confused. “What do you mean? When was this? When did this happen?”

“Two years ago.”

“You expect me to
remember shit like that?” Tomato Joe started to get to his feet, holding his
arm and gritting his teeth. “I think you broke my fucking arm.”

The baseball bat
hit Tomato Joe in the neck. He screamed.

“How’s
that?”
Samson said. He swung it again, hitting the biker in the balls.

“Fuck!”

“The people you
kidnap.
The kids.
Where do you bring them?”

“Fucking
Christ!”

Another hit with
the bat. Samson realized that post-war bikers were a stubborn bunch. Just like
Bowsman
, it was going to take more pain to make Tomato Joe
talk.

“Where do you take
them?”

“To
hell, asshole.”

Samson threw
himself onto Tomato Joe, kneeing him in the balls and holding the baseball bat
against his throat. “I can’t make this last a long, long time. Now tell me
where you bring the kids.”

“Different places,
man. I don’t remember every single one. I don’t know what the hell I did with
him. You want me to tell you he ended up in some nice family? Well I don’t
know. Maybe he did. But he could have ended up with some chicken hawk freak or
something. Who gives a fuck?” Tomato Joe laughed, blood spilling out of his
mouth along with yellow foam. The drugs had taken a toll.

“You’re a fucking
waste of life, you know that?”

Tomato Joe
chuckled. “Yeah, I know.”

Samson put the gun
to the man’s head and cocked it.

“Some of the kids,
you know, they end up being bought by Silver.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he buys the
kids sometimes. I don’t remember which ones but some of them.”

“What does he do
with them?”

Tomato Joe shook
his head weakly. “The hell would I know? The guy’s a fucking maniac. But if he
does have you son, you can sure as hell kiss him goodbye. You
ain’t
seeing him again. That’s for sure.”

“Shut up,” Samson
said. He pulled the trigger.

III.

Even over the roar
of his car’s engine, Samson could hear
Drac’s
scream.
The guy was coming up fast, standing on his front seat like a gladiator on a
chariot.

“Get down, kid,”
he said to Paulo.

Samson grabbed the
handle of the blowgun and looked into the rearview mirror, trying to aim the
best he could. When he had the other driver in his sights, he pressed the
trigger. Dozens of sharp needles shot out of the blowgun and struck
Drac
.

Unfortunately,
most of them hit him in his head and were deflected by his glass skull.
Drac
fired several shots, shattering the back window of
Samson’s car.

“Watch out!” Paulo
screamed. He had been peeking out the window and was pointing towards a black
rabbit the size of a cow that was sitting in the middle of the road. Samson
swerved to miss it but hit the edge of a pothole, knocking his car to the side
of the road.

Drac
avoided the pothole but not the rabbit. His car
crashed through the thing, spreading entrails across the road in a neon
explosion of bloody confetti. He sat down in his seat and sped up past Samson
who was trying to get his car onto the road.

Both cars were
coming up to the entrance to Mr. Silver’s Atlantic City
compound but
Drac
was ten feet ahead. Samson got back
onto the road, glass still falling like snowflakes from the back of his car. He
started to gain on
Drac
but he hit another pothole,
causing him to lose a few precious feet.

Up ahead was a
huge gate with a ribbon tied to each end.

The
finish line.

IV.

Six Months Ago

Samson was sitting
on the hood of his car, flipping through handful of Garbage Pail Kids cards he
had found in, of all places, a trashcan. He thought they might be worth trading.

His car was parked
at an abandoned rest stop off the Garden State Parkway
right outside of Jersey City where many races were held. He had to do anything
to keep his mind away from thinking about his son. The last few years had been
spent trying to find clues to Jack’s whereabouts.

On that particular
day, there was no one around. Samson was about to leave when he heard an engine
in the distance. Down the road he saw a white car making its way to him. He
grabbed his gun as it parked next to his car. A man in a white suit got out.